Second Chances
by SomewhereBeyondReality
Summary: A locked door opens, an old dream is reborn, a lost chance is found. Susan discovers Marcus may not be lost forever.   Set a couple of months after the end of Babylon 5 and final ep 'Sleeping in the Light'. A brief happy ending sequel. M/I
1. Chapter 1

**Ok just to cover my back here this is a fic with no great qualities whatsoever: its brief to the point of curtness, got absolutely no plot and any science is far fetched and unbelievable. It is merely a short story to give Babylon's 5 best characters the ending they deserve. A happily-ever-after epilogue for my own personal satisfaction. The character's are not mine; if they were Marcus never would've died, Susan wouldn't left and this fic wouldn't even exist in the first place. **

**Chapter One:**

The message comes at 2:46am Minbarii time – quite probably the worst possible time any message can arrive, take place, die, go off or blow up. Too late for you still to be around pulling a late nighter but too early for any sane person to be grabbing some snippet of early morning peace. Even Delenn and the sun aren't up for crying out loud! Still if Babylon 5 hasn't taught her the goddamn concept of Murphy's Law then nothing will.

But the message is something else. Probably the only message in the all of time, space and eternity that will willingly get her out of bed – even at 2:46am.

_A solution has been found._

Within the hour she's on a ship to Earth leaving nothing but a recording for Delenn and Ranger 2. It's the first time in years – possibly ever – she's abandoned a post. Especially this post. She likes her job (would say loved but Susan Ivanova doesn't let that word out easily). Resigning Earth Force is a decision she's rarely regretted. She could almost say she is _happy _here_. _(Yet another word not in her verbal dictionary). But now she has to leave. Oh, she'll be back and probably alone but just this once she has to go.

She has to see him.

There' s another unused word on the lists that's resurfaced. One she fights harder than usual to contain.

_Hope._

It will be the death of her.

X –X

On arrival the doctor's greeting consists of shoving a lot medical jargon in her face. Steven would've understood it but Susan doesn't want to call him: Doesn't want to see the pity in his eyes. The gentle understanding of a humouring parent. In everything else she may be valued for being tough and controlled but he of all people knows that on this subject she can get a bit...hazy.

So she struggles through the alien language (more alien than most real alien dialects now) to work out what's going on. If there is actually any hope.

Most of it's still incomprehensible but she works out they want to use the machine to direct – create – some kind of energy pulse to fuel him back to life with newly developed technology from studying the machine. If – _if _– everything goes according to plan he'll be healed, awake and alive.

But there's a catch.

(Of course there always is).

The shock of the pulse and the power of the machine will put extreme strain on his body – enough strain to instantly age him up to thirty years. In a single moment he'll be middle aged: Losing his youth, the prime of his life and body within seconds.

He doesn't have any close kin or even other friends, both his parents are gone and Susan knows all about his brother's death and the guilt he'd faced: that's something they have in common. So the closest relation is some distant relations still living in England. They're barely connected (or caring) and certainly have no say in this decision. As far as the doctor's are concerned it's all up to her.

Susan has the control.

And for the first time in her life she's not sure if she wants it. Oh, she knows what she'd like to decide: She knows what most people would do in her situation. What most people would tell her to do but she's not sure if she _can. _

She's not sure if she can choose based only on selfishness; that she'll order the 'cure' to be tried now when if she just waited, (probably from beyond the grave), in years from now a solution would be found that meant he wouldn't lose more of his life.

There's still the unconquerable voice whispering at the back of her mind, grinding out the maths equations. He was thirty three when he... _died. _Now, even if everything worked, he could be over sixty.

Or he could be within months of her own fifty one year old self.

She wouldn't have to cope with meeting him as a middle aged, practically ancient old woman (though of course he'd try to argue to contrary). They could enjoy the chance she'd always been too afraid to take before: to grow old together.

Except she'd have already _made _him grow old: old to match her.

Susan groans in the privacy of her room and puts her head in her hands. More than anything she wants to call out the order and damn the consequences. Play god. _Play god..._

After all that's what he'd done: Hijacked that stupid machine and decided who would live or die. _He _could take the responsibility. So maybe she should let him.

She swings to her feet and begin to pace the room. Maybe she's going about this the wrong way, looking at it from her perspective but it isn't really her choice – it's his. His life, his youth, his years. And what would he do?

In a moment of crystal clear clarity, a rising sun in her ever darkened mind of graveyard secrets and withering emotions Susan _knows._

_Of course _she knew what he'd decide; he's already proved it to her – her white knight riding to the rescue , except he had a dark cloak instead of shining armour, that stupid Denn'bok instead of a sword and she was far more likely to throw something at him than swoon into his arms. But he'd choose to be with her. Never mind that she isn't good enough or that he deserved better. He'd come back in any form just to see her (and everyone else admittedly) again.

Closing her eyes and exhaling deeply Susan strides the infirmary, calling for the doctors; they scuttle up with nervous faces. "Yes?"

"Summon your chief surgeon immediately. I've made my decision."

Never has honest vanity smelt so sweet.

X-X

Susan isn't in the room for the procedure: Not by her own choice but the chief surgeon's orders. She'd tried to...persuade him otherwise but that man wasn't easily intimidated. Even her offer to dislocate his neck hadn't done it.

So she waits in the hallway, hands clasped between her knees the way she'd sat when she'd been a girl: still playing with dolls. She's finally caved and contacted Steven, Michael and Delenn; they were already on their way. (Despite her warnings of likely failure but they were three of the most stubborn people in the galaxy so what could you do?) Vir and Zach should've got the news as well though of course it has to get through the endless maze of the Centuri court; that place is like a ten tiered wedding cake. You had to eat all the top before you could even start on the bottom layer. Poor Vir is the base, crushed under the pressuring weight of intensely decorated icing (i.e. his 'advisers').

Susan's never liked icing; too sweet and sickly; cake is cake – you eat it and move on, who needs embellishments? Its just food.

She's goes off track, avoiding the thought of _him _lying motionless in the room through the wall. He claims he doesn't believe in embellishments. Emphasise on the claimed. She can remember his first words to her, _"I prefer only to speak if I have something to say."_ She'd likes that admitted they had it in common. Ha! Speak only if there's something to say? He speaks when there was nothing to say, beyond nothing. If they were the only two survivors on an abandoned planet for years on end when they'd exhausted every possible topic of conversations for human kind, still would he be speaking.

Or singing.

She shudders. She'd never been so unfortunate to hear _that _but Stephen had told her: in detail. Yes, additional words were embellishments and he can never get enough of those. The endless metaphors, the poems, the quotes. He likes food too; sent her bacon and eggs as a surprise once – that had been creative she has to hand it to him.

_He believes, he claims, he speaks, he likes – _all present tense: Like he's still among the living. Is she really so naive to think this would work?

A whirring noise omits from the med lab: Sounds like one of the old helicopters taking off – she'd seen one in action at a museum exhibition once. Susan wonders if the White Stars will be there some day, alongside aeroplanes and motor bikes.

A light flashes from within the room, showing in the crack under the door. Once – twice – a third time. She abandons her seat and stands in front of the smooth rectangle of metal. On the third flash the light becomes steady, like the sun itself was hovering on the other side of the door, ready to rise for a new day. It gleams, rich, warm and golden casting long shadows on the corridor, the dark shades contrasting with the pale beige on beige colour scheme.

The noise increases; steaming like a dragon through the narrow walls and rooms, consuming everything in its roaring cloud. Susan's ear drums shake; sound fogging her consciousness as if the dragon (helicopter no longer) has infested her mind itself. Shrunk to miniature lizard size and stormed in through her ear, eating away at her brain.

Susan grits her teeth and arches her back as if preparing for battle. Well this is really; this was a harder, greater battle than any fought by ship or sword. But enough of this – this – _nonsense:_ she's going to see what's happening.

Nonsense; something _he'd _say.

She strides forward and shoves open the door, it swings apart with a smooth hiss. Inside he's lying in the centre of the room. Hooked up to enough wires to have sustained the Titanic and surrounded by enough doctors and scientists to sink it again with their weight alone. The light's blinding now: Not just watching a sunrise – you're in the sun itself. And if her ear drums were bouncy before now they're on a kangaroo like sugar high. The lights coming from the machine he's lying on: Like a bed but with a horizontal screen hovering above his body. A thick white beam omits from the centre sending reflections of light all over the room. Bouncing off the walls and back into her eyes.

An assistant of some sort patters up to her. "Um, General Ivanova you really aren't supposed to be in here, if you could just wait outside –"

"Shut that tongue pipsqueak before I have it removed and stuck on the wall as a trophy. I need some more decoration."

"I – I..."

"Don't!" She snapped, eyes flashing with wrath.

"Well –"

"Do you value your speech?"

"But –"

"_Do you?" _

Her eyebrows almost fly off the top of her head and he shrinks away. "I'll just go and check the..." He totters off in the wrong direction, protests disintegrating into incoherent mumbles. She smiles just as little smugly; it's been a while since she go to do that – the Minbarii are all so damn dignified the whole time – it feels _satisfying._

The brief euphoria vanishes as quickly as it came. Slipping away and dissolving into the air like mist, like salt in water as she catches sight of his face.

The light's pressing down harder and firmer. Beaming into his chest and the thought briefly runs through Susan's mind that it isn't healing him but killing. He will die over and over again. The dates repeating themselves down the years, papers inscrolling endlessly, a road leading to the horizon that never ends and this awful _sound _pounding through all of that, the sound of the fires of hell crackling away because that's where she'll go for allowing this...

She rips her minds eyes from those cheery fires-of-hell image and directs her real eyes back to his face. The skin is pale. Pale and white as an angel – she will _not _say her angel though no label could be more true: Her guardian, her saviour...her sacrifice. She diverts from that image as well. It's just his freckly English complexion – god knows she hates the English. Did she ever tell him that? Of her _loathing _of his prissy people, with their toffee accents and endless cups of milky tea. Milky like their skin complexions obviously.

There are faint wrinkles bracketing his eyes and mouth. Lines counting the years that he's actually endured – the machine continues its work and the seconds slip on by. The wrinkles deepen and spread, skin wasting away so his cheekbones protrude prominently and his lips tighten making them look thin and brittle.

Susan's heart is pounding in time with the transformation. In his hair too she can detect the changes –not just detect: _watch. _The deep brown speckled with faint grey at the temples, as if a tiny snow storm had passed over, settling upon his head for a short while. A lump rises in her throat.

Yet at the same time other changes are taking place: Colour returning to his thin cheeks. His chest is no longer downtrodden by the beam – rising and falling with it. The sound that no longer sounds like the screaming of a dying beast but singing of some god of the underworld.

The singing rises higher, soaring upwards as his narrow fingers slowly unclench. Susan's own fists flex in reaction, slowly drifting towards him. The song calling to her from her own hell as it calls to his.

Everything's more obvious now. Steady shifting of the chest and shoulders. Legs stretching under the heavy covers. (Why the hell does is he still covered with blankets?). Arms tensing by his sides. Even his eyes twitching underneath still shut lids. Susan's trembling as well; fists locked together, tears brimming like raindrops. The music soars to its ultimate finale: letting out one final boom, like a light switch the beam vanishes. The room falls silent.

Everything stops.

In that moment, as everlastingly bright as the tear that falls from Susan's cheek; his eyes slide open. The tear splashes to the ground.

Blue. She gazes into a whirlpool of blue.

Her breath hitches and dammit no matter how hard she tries she _cannot _move. A smile drifts across his face. _"And then as dark doors opened and I saw a vision approach, a maiden calling to me from beyond the abyss..."_

"_What?" _Shock overtakes joy and from the look of it the doctors they're as clueless as she is.

His gaze rolls back to the ceiling. "It's a poem. Does no one here read anymore?" His voice is barely a whisper but still holds the same lilting edge as before. No amount of wrinkles and grey can exterminate that.

And even as the scientists hustle her relenting form from the room and the tears streak down her cheeks Susan smiles; eyes never leaving his. It's him. It must be him. Only he, only he would ever say that.

He's back.

Marcus is back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

Marcus sighs and flicks the silver yoyo up to his hand again, watching its smooth motion as it cuts through the bare air. His fist clenches around the object before releasing it again.

"I wish you'd stop doing that." That's Stephen, sitting beside the bed, watching him with wary doctor's eyes.

He grins as it starts to spin, "why?"

"Has death made you more annoying or have I just forgotten?"

"No idea; haven't been around to notice." Marcus watches idly, mind far beyond the tiny gleaming circle. "You can't blame me for being bored; if you'd been lying around for twenty years you'd have knocked this lot out already."

"I think you're confusing who's the violent one here." Steven rolls his eyes, "Give them a break; you've been clinically _dead _for two decades! I can't believe we can just say that so casually." He leans closer, letting Marcus see for the first time the awe behind the cheerful facade. "Marcus, I don't think you realise how much of miracle this – your life –_is_."

That's what everyone thinks: That he's unaware of how lucky he is, how this is so much more than he deserves. But Marcus knows: he knew from the moment his eyes opened and he could feel the steady flow of breath running through his body. Hear the low voice of doctors looming above. He knew that what he'd just been given was a miracle. A gift.

Well no, that wasn't true. In the second of his awakening he did _not _comprehend the miracle bestowed upon him by whatever god was out there. He wouldn't even call it a gift. Curse works better. Or just a practical joke.

The miracle came in the second moment; the moment of sight. When light filtered his hazy vision and the image of Susan Ivanova came into focus. In that moment as he drank in the tears streaking her cheeks and the shine in her eyes he knew he'd been gifted a miracle.

He'd been ready to die for her. He _had _died for her. He'd lost too much and too many in the past: his life, his livelihood...his love.

Not the cliché, 'lost my lover' – no far beyond that. Marcus sometimes believed he'd lost the _capacity _to love. That losing everything he ever had cared about had wiped that emotion completely. He was not able to care about anything personal anymore. He could feel affection and loyalty. Honour and compassion. But true, proper love – gone. Despite appearances.

Delenn had been right about him; he hadn't joined the Rangers out of any lovefor the 'One', for the duties he'd embraced. The vigour and dedication had come from a need of payment – to clean away his sins. To work for those who were no longer there. And he'd done it: the ultimate payment – his insufficient, blemished life with all its mistakes and failures for her and all the others he didn't save.

It was an unequal trade but maybe the universe negotiates. Maybe it will forgive him and let what little he has found to love go free of his curse.

Then again he would've been dead so maybe that _was _their form of escape. Because the moment Susan hit the floor of that White Star Marcus knew that there would be no happy ending for him: like all the old beasts in stories he's cursed, a phantom on earth and his shadow falls over all that come too close.

Well Susan never exactly came close. (No matter how he would have wished it otherwise). But he had discovered love again and perhaps that was enough to doom her. He tried to be the hero but maybe he's the villain.

"Marcus?" Stephen's voice snaps him out of the bout of self pity.

"Yes?"

"I think there's someone here to see you." Something in his voice makes Marcus look up and Susan's standing patiently (never thought that word would describe her) by his bed. Something both uncomfortable and pleasant rises in Marcus's throat and its all he can do to choke it down. This is the first time she's been to visit since he's awoken.

"Greetings."

She rolls her eyes. "Greetings back to you." The words are stiff but he can see she's fighting to hold control. "How are you?"

"Bored." Stephen slips in quickly. "He's not allowed out of bed."

"Well I've come to remedy that." She gazes at him and if looks could burn Marcus would have a hole right through his forehead. "One hour free. Provided you're watched."

_Watched._ Honestly, do they think he's going to try and pull some great escape up of the bathroom chimney? One glance at the two of them gives the answer: yes, yes they do. Well never let it be said Marcus Cole doesn't take a chance when it's offered.

"Marvellous." He grins, bounding out of bed, "Lets move." He stands unsteadily and stumbles to one side; the two of them make a grab but he rights himself quickly. "Sorry, death doesn't do much for the old legs. You'd think they enjoyed the rest but apparently not." Susan flinches almost unnoticeably and Marcus grimaces inwardly. Tact was never his strong point. "So, where shall we go?"

"Actually," Stephen say apologetically, "I'd better get some work done – a doctor never rests you know." Marcus almost swears he winks. "I'll leave you two alone." He saunters off whistling.

Marcus and Susan end up wandering the never ending passages of the medical centre. He's not quite sure why he's here in the first place; instead of decomposing in space somewhere but Stephen mumbled a bit about Susan having him put in stasis in case a cure was ever found. Marcus can fill in the gaps and he's not complaining.

They stop in a deserted corridor: Its round, the ceiling curving in an archway so it feels as if they're moles burrowing under ground. Only he's pretty sure moles don't install windows: the whole of one wall is made of glass; advertising the stunning view of rolling grass hills and dark forests. It looks like England and he wonders fleetingly whether he should be feeling more comfortable on Earth or any human planet than he is currently. Since Arisia he's got all too used to the sight of space whirling outside every window.

He glances at Susan, her face is unreadable as always but there's something softer about her today. It takes him a moment to put his finger on it: Her hair – the plait is gone with all its control and poise and in its place is a mass of loose curls; falling down her back in glossy chestnut waves. Marcus realises how rarely, if ever, he's seen her with her hair out. He hopes it's a good sign.

"So," He muses, quickly returning his gaze to the view, "what have I missed in the last twenty years?"

Typical of Susan she leaps into a rundown of everything on the spot: Stephen's new job, Delenn and Sheridan's marriage and child and his 'death',_ Garibaldi's_ marriage and child (and profitable Mars business), Lennier's betrayal, G'kar and Londo's final sticky end (their turbulent relationship would go down in history), Vir (yes _Vir) _becoming emperor and now watched closely by Zach. Marcus is almost – emphasise on almost – speechless. If he had to bet how things would've turn out he'd have lost a lot of money.

She doesn't say anything about herself though he notices. If Delenn hadn't told him she became Entil'zha he'd be in the dark. Then again Susan's never been great at focusing inwards.

"So," he says teasingly when she finally finished. "I save your life, sacrificing myself in the process, lie in stasis for twenty years, come back as an old man and that's all you have for me?" He shrugs, "you're a hard woman to impress I'll admit: not even a thank you."

The old man's an exaggeration: he lost roughly twenty two years from his life, making him around forty nine. Considering Sheridan's loss Marcus thinks he got off easy. Besides, he always looked young for his age.

Susan has a thoughtful look in her eyes now as she appraises him. He both longs and fears what's behind those eyes. "Well..." She admits slowly, "I guess there is one thing I've wanted to give you. That I've waited to give you."

His heart accelerates at the implications of those words but he struggles to stay casual. "Really? Care to enlighten me?"

"Hmmm." She takes a deliberate step towards him. "Maybe."

His hands are sweaty now and his heart isn't just speeding; it's breaking every traffic limit in existence. She's leaning towards him. Closer and closer... Her eyelashes are long. They curve across her cheekbones. Peach. Peach perfume. A curl falls over her shoulder. He closes his eyes in anticipation and...

She slaps him across the face.

It's a good slap. Hard. Quick. Effective. Marcus's head snaps to the side and he can feel the skin throbbing. He wonders her fingers have imprinted in his cheek. Hmm, that would make interesting conversation. He rubs it tenderly, rewarded by another burst of pain. Ow.

Susan's striding off in the other direction now. Her back's turned but he can see she's wrapped her arms around herself. And he can see her heaving shoulders.

"Susan." She doesn't reply. Despite the stinging every fibre of his being still yearns to reach out and hold her close.

He might just keep her arms pinned though.

"I suppose I deserved that." And in a way he does – when you look at it from a seriously skewed perspective. He may have died for her but in doing so _she _had to live for him. Both of them know which is harder. "Susan?"

"Just give me a moment." Her voice was choked.

"I'm sorry." He reaches out to grip her shoulder. "But understand that I had to do it –"

"No!" The scream pierces the air. She whirls around and slams his hand away. "No you did _not _have to do it! You were never under any legal, moral – _any _obligation to go and make yourself a human sacrifice! I never asked you to, no one demanded it." The words were cascading as fast as the tears staining her cheeks. "I was ready to die Marcus, its war! People _don't_ make it. That's just reality. Nothing decreed you to go and play god or decide for yourself who survives. I mean I know you're an arrogant..." Her words disintegrated in filthy Russian. Marcus found himself oddly enjoying the rant. Not the twinges of guilt but the fact that he's around to hear it at all.

"But since when were even the laws of the universe beyond you? Sometimes people die and that's life! Why couldn't you just accept that?" The fury grounds to an abrupt halt and she gazes at him with clenched fists and crimson cheeks. Marcus swallows.

"Because I couldn't." He says quietly. "Because I couldn't let you die."

The intensity of his voice sends her pacing again. "Well you can go put that comment up your backside you spineless, toffee nosed, bone headed..." The insults trail off again and her iron posture wilts. She's shaking uncontrollably and Marcus felt a lump rise to his throat. Even Stephen's warnings hadn't prepared him for how hard she'd taken it.

He takes a couple of cautious steps forward and is rewarded by a small smile. She takes a couple of deep breaths. "You know when I was – lying there..." A nervous laugh. "When I was dying I suppose, just before you, you know came in; I heard you say something. Three words."

Marcus feels heat rising up his neck. "Yes, I remember." He admits, "And I meant it – probably more than anything else I've ever said in my life." There's a long pause and he forces himself to speak lightly despite the sinking sensation in his stomach. "Not that I wouldn't understand if you don't feel the same way." Nope, it wasn't just his stomach going down – it was attached to a cargo of lead weights as well.

Susan's eyes flash and her head snaps up again. "Dammit Marcus of course I feel the same way!" Yelling again. He really had to be careful of the short fuse. Then again he had set it off two decades ago. "Or at least I would've done if I_ let_ myself." Her voice is breaking. "But you don't _know _me: who I really am and what's happened to me – and everyone close to me." She leans against the non-glass wall and crumples to the ground; like a shattered rag doll that had lost all of its stuffing. He slides down beside her.

"All my life everyone I loved has died, or – or left or...got hurt. And I've got hurt because of it. My mother, my father, my brother...so you know, I just figured I'd let caring go; who needs feelings right?" She chuckles and in it bitterness he could recognise his own past laughter. The mask to match his super hero cloak. "But then_ you_ came along and you were so good and comfortable and _right _and I – I saw everything that I could have...and...and everything I could lose."

They've come to the truth. The terrified look in her gaze tells him so. Marcus has read that eyes were the windows of your heart; and right now the curtains were parted, the lights on and he can see straight into the true heart of Susan Ivanova. He wonders how many years it's been since anyone had managed it. Instinct takes his controls now.

An arm slips round her shoulders and he pulls her close as she sobs into his chest. "You were scared." He says softly and tightens the grip. "You didn't want me to get too close."

She nods, her words muffled and broken. "And – and so I pushed you away. I tried to get you to leave me alone, called you I don't know how many names, put you through endless abuse, never once showed a scrap of appreciation for any of the hundreds of things you did and all because I just couldn't admit it that..." She weeps harder, both their bodies wracking with the emotion. Tears of his own well up and he makes no effort to stop them falling. "And I've spent twenty damn years regretting all of it, wishing I could turn the clock back for even an hour so I could tell you how sorry I am for, for – everything." She draws away to look him in the face. "But now you're here, you're back and I don't even know if it's real or not...because...because I've dreamed it so many times." Her breath catches on the last statement whether from shame or something else he had no idea.

"Susan." He says when he could speak again. "Susan: look at me, _feel _me." He gently strokes the damp tresses of hair where his own signs of grief have just been absorbed. The other hand encases her waist. "I'm real. I'm here. And I will _never_ leave you again." He holds her tighter: a brief shake. "Do you hear me? _Never_. I'll put it in writing if you'd like. A poem? Play? Essay? Novel? You pick. I could try song thought not sure Stephen would suggest it."

She laughs at that and Marcus listens with pride; he's always takes special credit for that laugh. Well, any of her laughs actually.

They sit in place for uncountable minutes. For all he cares the sun could've stopped, the planet fallen motionless and every being in the galaxy gone into Minbarii cocoons but all he's aware of is the warm figure pressed against his chest. With a gentle sigh Susan's head had dropped to his shoulder, her breaths steadying, carefully nestled in his cocooning arms. He smiles into her hair, eyes closing peacefully.

This is all he ever wanted.

This is it.

_She_ is it.

"You know," he muses after a while, rough fingers caressing her cheek. "You really can be a little arrogant at times ."

She winds up like a coiled spring. "Sorry, I can be a little _what?"_

"Arrogant. I mean do you really think you're the only one who's ever lost someone? The only one who's been hurt?" He smiles without humour. "You know some people would claim that makes us the perfect match. I mean you might've met the one person who can beat you in guilt grading."

Susan snorts, "I doubt it."

"I know you do. And I know you're wrong." His mind flashes back to earlier thoughts. "In fact if it wasn't for the fact you seem to think everyone who gets near you gets burnt, it would be _me _you'd want to stay away from."

She gazes at him wordless and Marcus feels the need to explain. That's not unusual. "You can't singe a charred body." He says simply. "Your grief, my grief – your past, my past. Trust me when I say you won't outstrip me." _They're the same. _Perhaps that's why he's so attracted to her. He's found someone who can finally understand. Perhaps the mask is different but it's a mask nonetheless. She has covered her guilt with ice and he in fire but below the surface the same wound festers.

A frown indents her forehead. "I'm never going to get rid of you, am I?"

A grin blossoms on his face. "No. Not really." Warmth is spreading through him. Not the uncomfortable searing heat of before; _comfortable _warmth_. _Perhaps it's finally thawing her out.

As if she is made of glass rather than indestructible steel he runs his fingers once more through her hair. Cool strands brushing the back of his hand. Then round her chin –and up to caress her face. Her eyes are soft and sparkling like glistening orbs. He leans in closer.

"_You are the most beautiful woman I've ever met." _It's barely a whisper but she hears.

"I think you've said that once before."

"I suppose you're right. Well, there's always room for repeats." Marcus pulls her in, lips brushing her ear. "Like this one for example:" A deep breath. Just say it.

"_I love you."_

The sentence echoes around the empty passage. He wouldn't be surprised if it sprouted wings and glided out into space. He doesn't care of the world knows. There're tears again and for one horrific moment he wonders if there's a mistake.

"Marcus." The choked name is the most glorious thing he's ever heard – it's in her voice. "I – I...I love...Oh screw this."

She grabs his shoulders and kisses him.

Electricity shoots up his spine. Mind exploding into a thousand lights. He's not sure if his body's still on Earth anymore. Whether the intensity and power of these feelings have caused it to lose all contact with the ground and disintegrate to star dust itself. The joy is too much for one being to handle. Perhaps his atoms are already scattered: Being spread to every corner of the galaxy. Every layer of skin erupts into goose bumps. Every hair on end. Every drop of blood is boiling in a way never felt before.

Her lips are soft, moulding to his and their bodies curve together in perfect fit. Without intention his hands continue to stroke her long curls.

Before may have been what he's always wanted. What he'd hoped and envisioned, dreamed and longed for but this –_ this_ is beyond his capacity of imagination.

The kiss deepens and for the first time in his life Marcus can't think. Susan's presence clouds his mind, fogging thoughts. He pulls her closer.

Maybe; sometimes thoughts just aren't necessary.

He can deal with that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three:**

Life isn't a fairy tale. Things aren't sorted instantly. Nothing comes together immediately. Its not one kiss and you've already reached the 'happily every after'. It's long and it's hard and it's gritty.

Susan and Marcus know that; they've both seen enough and lived enough and suffered enough not to expect everything to work about at once. In fact they both have doubts about whether it will work out at all.

She still wakes up sweating and screaming in the darkest hour of the night. If anything the nightmares have become more frequent. Now that he's back old fears preys more acutely, because this time she has something more to lose. It takes a long time to truly believe she's not alone anymore.

He has to adjust to the world of the living again. He may appear twenty (two) years older but age isn't that simple. Time is a fluid thing and he has to make up for all he's lost. Friends that he remembered have gone; he will never see many of them again. They've gone without a chance of goodbye and that something his character finds hardest to accept. Those that are still around have changed: older, slower, wiser. He has to fit in with that. Even Babylon 5 – his home – his refuge has gone. The loss soaks into his being, making him feel heavy and burdened.

Nor have their pasts vanished; their grief and guilt and self hatred may be matched, they may understand each other but its still pain. And pain damages.

But all is not lost; the universe may be satisfied, for at last fate seems to be lending a hand of fortune. Perhaps the debt has been cleared. Maybe it's decided they _have _suffered enough.

Marcus begins to work among the Rangers once more, understanding new ways and new customs. He is something of an icon now; not just for his courage and fierce loyalty which was always admired but his resurrection. He's caught the 'Sheridan syndrome'; a man who has come back from the dead and as such must be more than mere mortal. Your greater points are always exaggerated after martyrdom but now he's actually around to enjoy it now. It's a first; except perhaps for Jesus. The attention hasn't gone to his head as much to make _that_ comparison.

The number of Ranger's is increasing every year and Susan struggles with the additional workload. If it was anyone else they would've buckled months earlier. There's only ever been a one Entil'zha but after all; this is a time of radical changes. Delenn's famous for those decisions. And since when has Delenn let insignificant things like death and time stop her when she's made a choice? Marcus knows she thinks he's a greater Ranger now than ever envisioned. Before it was guilt; a duty; making up for the lost. Now it's a purpose, a calling – Susan's calling and his calling.

The two of them are called a second Delenn and Sheridan. Both discourage the comparison; they know they'll never match up that pair: Marcus could never been as strong or charismatic as John and Susan will never have Delenn's diplomacy and grace – but still the label sticks.

Perhaps though the comparison is not based on their achievements or what glory they earn. Perhaps it is on their courage, their dedication, their vision for a better age...

Or perhaps it is based on the closeness they share. The partnership that is led by hope (and a tad of scepticism) and supported by love.

After all like their predecessors Marcus and Susan _are_ the leaders of a new age. Still battling the never ending challenges life and the universe throw their way. They carry the torch now but most importantly of all they carry it together.

And perhaps, just perhaps they don't have to worry about being good enough anymore: about proving themselves – hiding themselves – fighting themselves – healing themselves and past mistakes. Perhaps they are good enough for each other and that is good enough for now and forever.


End file.
